Quitting the confines of British India, Madame Pfeiffer, ever in quest of the new and strange, sailed to Bassora, and ascended the historic Tigris, so named from the swiftness of its course, to Bagdad, that quaint, remote Oriental city, which is associated with so many wonderful legends and not less wonderful “travellers’ tales.” This was of old the residence of the great caliph, Haroun-al-Raschid, a ruler of no ordinary sagacity, and the hero of many a tradition, whom “The Thousand and One Nights” have made familiar to every English boy. It is still a populous and wealthy city; many of its houses are surrounded by blooming gardens; its shops are gay with the products of the Eastern loom; and it descends in terraces to the bank of the river, which flows in the shade of orchards and groves of palm. Over all extends the arch of a glowing sky.
From Bagdad an excursion to the ruins of Babylon is natural enough. They consist of massive
fragments of walls and columns, strewn on either side of the Euphrates.
On the 17th of June our heroic traveller joined a caravan which was bound for Mosul, a distance of three hundred miles, occupying from twelve to fourteen days. The journey is one of much difficulty and no little danger, across a desert country of the most lifeless character. We shall relate a few of Madame Pfeiffer’s experiences.
One day she repaired to a small village in search of food. After wandering from hut to hut, she obtained a small quantity of milk and three eggs. She laid the eggs in hot ashes, and covered them over; filled her leathern flask from the Tigris; and, thus loaded, returned to the encampment formed by the caravan. She ate her eggs and drank her milk with an appetite for which an epicure would be thankful.
The mode of making butter in vogue at this village was very peculiar. The cream was put into a leathern bottle, and shaken about on the ground until the butter consolidated. It was then put into another bottle filled with water, and finally turned out as white as snow.
Next day, when they rested during the heat, the
guide of the caravan endeavoured to procure her a little shelter from the glare of the pitiless sun by laying a small cover over a couple of poles stuck into the ground. But the place shaded was so small, and the tent so frail, that she was compelled to sit quietly in one position, as the slightest movement would have involved it in ruin. Shortly afterwards, when she wished for some refreshment, nothing could be procured but lukewarm water, bread so hard that it could not be eaten until thoroughly soaked, and a cucumber without salt or vinegar.
At a village near Kerka the caravan tarried for two days. On the first day Madame Pfeiffer’s patience was sorely tried. All the women of the place flocked to examine the stranger. First they inspected her clothes, then wanted to take the turban off her head; and, in fact, proved themselves most troublesome intruders. At last Madame Pfeiffer seized one of them by the arm, and turned her out of her tent so quickly that she had no time to think of resistance. By the eloquence of gesture our traveller made the others understand that, unless they withdrew at once, a similarly abrupt dismissal awaited them. She then drew a circle round her